


Among the Stars

by Niitza



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Space, Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang 2015-16, Asexual!Castiel, F/M, Gen, Jedi!Castiel, M/M, The Force, The Impala - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:23:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Jedi Order feels the hints of a possible disturbance in the Force, Castiel and several other knights are sent on a solitary mission to investigate.</p>
<p>Meanwhile Dean Winchester, captain of the scavenger ship The Impala, is looking for his brother.</p>
<p>His and Castiel's paths converge, on the Veragi trade route, on the way to the Outer Rim—which, as it turns out, is neither a coincidence, nor a good sign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Among the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first things first: you might notice that this story is not finished. Real life has made it difficult as of late to find the time but most of all the right state of mind to write it and complete it in time for the challenge. As a consequence I am only able to post the first chapter out of three today. I do however have the whole story planned out and intend to finish it, I promise.
> 
> A world of thanks to my artist, [Kuwlshadow](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/), for both patience and amazing art, which can be found [here on tumblr](http://kuwlshadow.tumblr.com/post/145192227673/title-among-the-stars-author-niitza-artist) and [here on LJ](http://kuwlshadow.livejournal.com/33519.html).
> 
> Thank you also to the mods of the [Asexual Supernatural Mini Bang](http://acespnminibang.tumblr.com/), who were both very efficient and very patient, and gave me the reason I needed to start this fic in the first place. I am sorry I could not complete it in time, but grateful to be allowed to post what I could write.

For as long as he could remember, Castiel had loved space.

He remembered as a child, how he'd climb onto the roof of their small house at the edge of the desert and look up at the sky. He remembered the brush of the cool wind through his loose shirt, the feel of sand between his toes, the slow shift from the last colors to the deeper hues of the night as, one by one, the stars started to appear, a whole universe becoming visible once more.

He'd been young at the time, so very young; full of curiosity and yearning. It had been before the Order had found him, before it had taken him away to train amongst his peers. Yet through all the years that had come and gone since then, through all the travels from planet to planet, from one solar system to the next, from one end of the galaxy to the other, something of that child had stayed with him, a wonder for the silent infinity looming all around him. He only ever needed to raise his head on a clear night, to watch through a window during a space journey, and he'd feel it again.

That is, when his contemplation wasn't disrupted by the racket of nearby repairs. Or vain attempts at it.

Another loud clang resounded through the narrow corridors of the ship, making Castiel flinch internally. It was followed by a string of curses—none of them in a language he knew, and he knew many—, then more, albeit fainter, clanging. Just as his shoulders relaxed, it paused, and a voice called: "And now, how's it look like?"

The voice belonged to Dean, the owner and pilot of the ship. Another, higher voice—Charlie's—replied from the cockpit: "Testing!"

She turned the power on. You could hear it spreading through the ship's structure, racing through cables and wires, lighting lamps and LEDs on its path—until suddenly it fizzled, faltered. The lights flickered, then went completely out.

Another series of curses followed.

"Not quite," Charlie said. "It's better, though?"

Dean didn't reply to her optimistic quip. Castiel could hear him shifting around, picking up and throwing down tools, muttering to himself. More clanging came.

"Okay, what about now?"

"Testing," Charlie called back.

It went on for a while, Dean tinkering at one thing then the next, trying to find what exactly was preventing their ship from reaching hyperspace. Up until now he hadn't had much success—

("Off, off, turn it _off_!" Castiel could hear him bellow as the smell of hot metal spread through the corridors.)

—be it because the problems were extremely numerous and had only now became impossible to ignore, or because the man had been grossly exaggerating when he'd boasted about his abilities as a pilot and mechanic. Castiel was still undecided on the matter.

He went back to his contemplation of the space outside instead. He didn't know enough about the mechanics of their vessel to be of any help, so he'd decided—wisely, in his opinion—to refrain from commenting. All that was left, therefore, was to wait. And wait. And wait, and hope that they'd stop hovering through the void sooner than later.

It wasn't anything exceedingly unfamiliar. As a Jedi, he was no stranger to space travel. His missions had led him to every corner of the galaxy, sometimes on journeys during which he'd had to stay hidden, quiet and unmoving in a cramped corner. This was better: he could sit near one of the windows, watch that vast darkness dotted with bright lights on which his eyes feasted without ever being sated. In calmer moments, when the Impala glided smoothly through it all, it even reminded him of his solitary retreats, which he took whenever he was allowed. He never perceived the presence of the Force more clearly than on these rare occasions; the way it filled the universe and held it together, the way it powered its every motion, balanced its slightest shifts, constantly kept it from toppling over into chaos—a tether ignored by most.

Right now though, the purity of that connection eluded him. He was too keenly aware of the crew's presence, there were too many noises and movements behind him for him to achieve the proper state of mind. Dean's aura—even though Castiel had never met anyone less Force-sensitive, or maybe for that very reason—pervaded the whole ship, impossible to ignore.

As was the creativity with which he cursed.

Not for the first time, Castiel questioned whether he'd made the right choice in hopping a ride on this ship. He longingly remembered his other options—large, sleek, modern, a world away from the ancient cockleshell in which he was now stuck. He tried to remember his reasoning when Charlie had found him and convinced him that the Impala was his best option. His mission was an investigation. Discretion was of the essence, and it was more likely to be achieved traveling in a near-wreck which used to belong to a bounty hunter—Dean had revealed he'd inherited it from his father—and now stuck to the edges of the galaxy and of legality, than by comfortably cruising along a merchant's cargo blustering its way on official roads.

Unfortunately, another mission imperative was to be swift, and bring back his findings to the Council as quickly as possible. The Impala's stubborn refusal to reach light-speed was putting a serious wrench in that part of the plan.

"Okay, try again," Dean called, starting to sound weary.

"Got it, boss!" Charlie returned with unwavering enthusiasm.

This time, the power surged, ran through the circuits—and came full circle without a hitch.

"It's working!"

"It's working?" Dean replied, like he hadn't expected for that to be the case.

Castiel decided to find that more amusing than worrying.

He didn't let himself feel actual relief until the vessel had corrected its course, until all calculations had been made and hyperspace had successfully been reached. Once it was, and the Impala's circuits still hadn't failed, he allowed himself a small sigh.

It was high time they reached their destination.

  


*

  


There had been one more reason for him choosing the Impala—and it hadn't been how Charlie, despite her profession and frequentations, radiated goodness like she'd come into being in the brightest part of the light side.

As a ship working at the fringes of society, the Impala cared little for official spatial roads. It avoided them, even. Any other—more proper—vehicle would've stuck to them, which would've eased the journey but would've probably meant a detour, and undoubtedly necessitated for Castiel to find several connecting flights to correct his course. It had made sense, therefore, to favor a vessel liable to take a more direct route.

That he'd found one headed in about the same direction his senses had been pointing towards had been sheer luck—although Dean been suspiciously reluctant to tell him what business exactly he and his crew had in that part of the Outer Rim. They were looking for someone, he'd said, and left it at that. Only the fact that he hadn't tried to pry into the reasons why a lone Jedi was traveling so far  away from Coruscent—by dubious means to boot—had made Castiel extend the same courtesy.

He had his suspicions, though: the only reason why scavengers or contrabandists would actively go after someone would be if that someone either had left a debt unpaid, or had disappeared with a cargo they had no rights to. That such a wretched individual would try and hide in the same kind of backwater holes as the ones where Siths lurked wouldn't be surprising. And it was turning out to be a good thing: after following echoes from the dark side for months, from Coruscent to a small planet in the Colonies to a series of moons in the Reaches, Castiel finally had a tangible lead, and would've been loath to suffer more delay. When he'd found the Impala and its crew, on a small hub moon along the Veragi trade route, he'd been wary but had seized the occasion.

It had been three systems, four planets, seven moons and one asteroid field ago.

"Looks like we're all set," Castiel heard Dean comment. He blinked out of his thoughts and glanced over, noticing that the man had joined Charlie in the cockpit and was looking over the dials, LEDs and maps on the control panel.

"Sure does," Charlie muttered, scribbling down numbers as she followed their trajectory to make sure the preparatory calculations had been done right and they wouldn't end up too close to a sun or in the middle of a gas planet.

"Great," Dean exclaimed, straightening up and clapping his hands on his thighs. "'Cause I'm beat. Time for my beauty sleep." He pivoted on his heels and headed for the common area to collapse on one of the old couches. "Someone wake me up when it's time to leave light-speed," he called, eyes already closed, digging his shoulders into the cracked leather in search for a comfortable position.

He wasn't addressing anyone in particular, not even Castiel, whose presence he hadn't acknowledged even though the Jedi was perched on the seat opposite his. Less than a minute later he was out like a light. Which was understandable: he'd been tinkering at his ship for hours, long past the time his shift at the helm usually ended.

He didn't wake when Benny, his copilot, walked past shortly thereafter to replace him, knowing he was needed without anyone having told him anything. Castiel nodded at him but stayed where he was.

He looked back towards the window. Space was whipping by, a vision warped by the speed at which they were now traveling. Stars flashed past, became visible only to disappear just as fast, leaving bright streaks of light on his eyelids and making him feel slightly nauseous. No matter how used to space travel his body was, it would always rebel at moving at such an unnatural pace.

He turned away and focused on the innards of the ship instead. It was dark and quiet. Nothing but the faint hum of its machinery breaking the silence, so discreet and continuous it soon ceased to register; nothing but the yellowish glow from the pilot area half-heartedly chasing the darkness, outlining the irregularities in the walls and on the ground, the few pieces of furniture—and the contours of Dean's prone body. The light brushed against the curve of his shoulder, the spikes of his short-cropped hair, and left his features in shadows.

Castiel's eyes, long used to the surrounding obscurity, could still make them out, helped by how familiar they'd become over the last few weeks. When relaxed in sleep they had something of the child: young and trusting, innocent almost. Miles away from the persona they displayed when Dean was awake, which was loud, brash, irritating and lewd.

It would've been easy to think it was all there was to the man. Castiel surely had thought so himself at first, and considered having to put up with him a necessary evil, a natural consequence of traveling with scavengers and contrabandists.

That was before the hours he'd spent sitting by him in the cockpit, to keep him company while Charlie was off in her room recharging her batteries and Benny wherever he went whenever he wasn't needed. After a while, silence and wariness had morphed into tentative conversation. For Castiel, who rarely engaged in it with someone who didn't reverently back down as soon as they disagreed, it had been… educational, to say the least.

Underneath the recklessness, the irreverence, the inane or dirty jokes, Dean could be surprisingly thoughtful. He was profoundly uneducated, but in no way stupid, and unafraid to state and defend his opinion. When it came to his crew, he was both caring and loyal, and could grow downright belligerent if he believed they were being slighted. And he was proud, too, despite what he was, what he did—or because of it.

Up until then, Castiel had never spared scavengers more than a passing thought, a disdainful curl of the lips whenever he'd caught sight of them picking at scraps out of the corner of his eye. But when Dean argued about it—

It didn't sound petty, or despicable, or dirty. It was just what some people had to do, because they didn't have a choice, because they'd been born with next to nothing, had never had the means to dig themselves out of that situation no matter how hard they tried, and had to make do with what the rest of the world carelessly cast aside instead. It didn't make them worthless. On the contrary, the way Dean talked about it, there was even some sort of dignity to it—making sure that nothing went to waste, that even the less privileged had access to some modicum of comfort… There was skill and creativity too, in the ability to evaluate at a glance the worth of any piece they came across, to imagine the many ways in which it could be best repurposed.

The Impala was a prime example: less than a tenth of it belonged to the original make and model, Dean said. It was old, but it was still running; it wasn't perfect, but what it could achieve when it worked went far beyond what any vessel of that size and age ever could.

He talked about it with such pride. There was also a lot of care, and love, shining through the way it usually did when people talked about their home planet, their house, their family. To Castiel, who hadn't owned anything or resided anywhere for more than a couple of years since he'd been taken in by the Order, it was all extremely foreign. And fascinating.

"He's awfully cute when he sleeps, isn't he?"

Castiel snapped out of his thoughts. For someone who was half-droid, Charlie was surprisingly discreet when she moved.

He belatedly realized that he'd been staring.

"Pardon me?" he asked.

Charlie threw him a pointed look. " _Sure_ ," she teased, "pretend you don't know what I'm talking about." She paused and, when he didn't react, added: "You know, that fact that I'm all about the ladies doesn't mean that I'm blind when it comes to the other half of the human race. I know hotness when I see it."

"But I don't," Castiel retorted.

"Right," Charlie said with a roll of her eyes. "I'd forgotten your whole shtick with celibacy. Which is complete bullshit, by the way. I'm sure all it does is make you all feel frustrated and obsessed with sex, actually."

"Celibacy is not part of the Jedi code," Castiel stated. "It's simply… encouraged. Especially for Padawans."

From the way Charlie raised her eyebrows, this was news to her. Castiel never knew wether to feel amused or irritated about the misconceptions circulating about the Order.

" _You're_ not a Padawan, though," she pointed out.

"No," Castiel conceded. "But I have no interest in sex either."

He never did, actually.

He remembered his time at the temple, listening with indulgent indifference to his comrades as they complained and moaned, as they raged against the rules like they were being deprived of something vital. At first he'd been confused about it, not understanding what was so important about sex, or what was so difficult about not having it. Then, young and arrogant as he'd been at the time, he'd started to believe that it was a sign of how good the control he had over himself already was; that in that respect he might even be superior to his comrades—he had to be, if he was already so much better at ignoring his body's desires, at suppressing them to the point that they didn't even register in the first place.

It was only later, during his apprenticeship, that he'd come to realize that it had had nothing to do with control and everything to do with how he was—which meant that in that respect there was nothing _to_ control. And that there was as little merit in him remaining celibate as there was in him refraining from eating rocks.

His apprenticeship under Master Milton had been very humbling, for more than one reason.

Now though, it had just become something that was. And while he could freely admit that Dean was a handsome man, his appreciation stopped there, and would never mean anything more.

"It must be nice on long missions," Charlie sighed. "Not missing that on top of all the rest. That bargirl on Coruscent will forget all about me, and I was _finally_ getting somewhere."

She stood up, thus bringing that conversation to an end.

"How long until we leave light-speed?" Castiel asked.

"Oh, _hours_ ," she replied. "You could definitely get some shuteye too."

"Maybe."

She threw a small wave his way and disappeared around a corner—probably to make the rounds, checking that none of the circuits were about to fail again and strand them in the middle of nowhere. Silence settled in the common room, only broken by the hum of the machinery and Dean's regular breathing, so deep it bordered on a snore.

Castiel for his part didn't feel the slightest tug of sleep.

But maybe he could try and meditate.

  


*

  


The Impala didn't break down, and soon brought them to their destination.

Neka was a mean little planet somewhere around the Raioballo sector. Plagued by dark dust and low skies which condemned it to a constant twilight, it had little by means of resources and therefore garnered next to no interest from traders or investors. It circled a few days' journey off the nearest hyperspace route, a world no one would go to unless they had no other choice, or had something to hide.

Dean and his crew had only needed three hours out of the couple of days they spent on Dantooine after leaving hyperspace to confirm that it was where they escapee had disappeared off to.

Things were less certain for Castiel. His senses made it clear that he was in the right corner of the galaxy. Over the course of their journey he'd felt an unease creep up his spine, a darkness pressing down at the back of his head, getting heavier and heavier the closer they came to the sector. Yet the feeling remained nebulous: no matter how acute his perception was, it wasn't and would never be enough to pinpoint the exact origin of that corruption—unless he found himself in its direct presence. And while Dean and his crew had found the information they needed, there had been no rumors in the same bars and corners to sustain the Order's suspicion that a Dark Lord might be rising or trying to gather undue power.

All that was left was for him to start and comb through the various inhabited planets and moons of the sector, trying to find something—whispers, talks of disappearances, maybe even a tangible, rotten trail, the likes of which true evil inevitably left in its wake. Which was why he'd decided to stick with the Impala's crew all the way to Neka. It was as good a place to start as any.

(He also found himself curiously reluctant to leave them. Probably because, if their luck failed them, they might stumble onto the very people Castiel was looking for and thus face danger far beyond what they were used to or expecting—and as a Jedi Castiel had sworn to protect the galaxy and its people.)

Dean hadn't seemed convinced by his logic when he'd explained and asked to tag along. He'd even been strangely reticent—for a second Castiel had thought he would refuse.

It confused him, until they set foot on Neka and it became obvious he'd made the right choice.

Something twisted and poisonous dwelled there, sticking at the bottom of his shoes, leaving an acrid aftertaste at the back of his tongue. But there was something else too, something much greater—yet uneven at the same time, wavering. As if unsure whether it would definitely tip over to the dark side or—maybe, hopefully—not.

Castiel knew at once that he had to find whatever stood in the middle of that whirlwind.

He pondered for a second over taking his cloak and his light-saber with him or not, until he saw Dean don the exact same kind of outer garment, to protect himself from the cold and dust as well as to conceal himself. Charlie for her part fiddled with some of her parameters and thus turned her hair a dirty brown that made her astonishingly unremarkable.

(Given that most of her bionic parts were covered by synthskin, if was difficult to know exactly how much of her body was organic. Castiel had discreetly tried to ask Dean about it early on, only to receive an outraged and quite dissuasive: "That's not something you _ask_ , _please_ tell me you didn't" in answer.)

Benny, true to his reserved species, stayed behind to watch over the ship.

Due to its size and isolation, Neka had only one spaceport. Around it a small, low settlement had developed, a gathering of squat buildings which barely broke the skyline. Only the hangars housing spacecrafts stuck out. The rest lined streets digging deep in the ground so as to avoid the worst of the wind.

It didn't take the trio long to map out the town and find the establishment most likely to yield the information they needed—or so Dean assured them. Their entrance didn't attract much attention. Castiel would've found it surprising, if he hadn't remembered who exactly frequented such secluded spots in the galaxy: bounty-hunters, smugglers, contrabandists or even criminals, people on the run—people with a lot of things to hide, who only wanted to go on with their business undisturbed, and therefore didn't pry into the business of others. Showing undue attention to anyone would actually be the thing to attract suspicion, if it wasn't interpreted as a threat, or as an insult.

Castiel made sure not to let his eyes linger on anyone or anything.

The room was darkly lit, with low ceilings and surprisingly little smoke. Dean led them to one of the tables lining the wall, not too far from the entrance so as to allow a good overview of the room, and ordered three bottles of Ebla beer. They should sit there for a while, he advised, drinking their pints and quietly talking, nothing but three tired travelers enjoying a night on firm soil for once, while their ship reloaded. After an hour or so he'd walk up to the bar for a refill, and see if it was possible to gather some information without rousing too much suspicion.

Castiel could make himself completely invisible when he focused right—eyes slid over him, ears never quite caught his voice, people forgot about him between one second and the next—but he couldn't as easily extend that to his companions. He could partially cloak them, at best, which he did, before he followed Dean's instructions.

It wasn't difficult for him and Charlie to find a subject to dive into. He was well traveled, she was well-read—she filled the hours she spent monitoring the ship digging through databases—and they shared the same fascination for the galaxy's diversity. Inspired, maybe, by the planet they were on, their discussion settled on the various ways animals and plants had adapted to desert conditions and if explanations could be found for their differences or similarities. Dean pitched in from time to time but remained silent for the most part, playing the more subdued companion so that he could easily keep an eye and ear out.

They only had dregs of beer left and Castiel was starting to wonder if he should remind Dean of his plan when something caught his attention right in the middle of a sentence, making him stutter and forget what he was about to say.

"You okay?" Charlie asked with a frown, unused to seeing him lose his countenance.

Still confused himself by the disturbance in his mind, Castiel didn't have the time to answer, for in that second Dean took a sharp breath in and hunched over.

"He's here," he hissed.

Charlie blinked at him and bent forward. "You sure?" she whispered back.

"He just came in, don't look," Dean replied just as Castiel finally pinpointed what had troubled him: a presence, a Force-sensitive presence, suddenly there, unexpected but undeniable. He felt it linger, then start moving. Dean and Charlie were still leaning over the table—him jutting his mug around to punctuate his now nonsensical words, her apparently not caring about her hair falling forward and brushing against the greasy surface of the table—looking for all the world like they were deep in a hushed but vicious debate over the current top podracers, while conveniently obscuring their faces. Castiel felt very tense in comparison, sitting straight in his chair. His hair stood up on the back of his neck as the presence passed behind him and a shiver ran down his spine—only to turn into a cold pulse when, not a second later, Dean asked:

"What's he doing now?"

Charlie's eyes briefly darted up before returning to her captain's. "He's headed for a table in the corner, I think I saw a girl sitting there—"

"A _girl_?" Dean clamped his mouth shut, aware his voice had almost risen too much.

"I can't be sure," Charlie said. "It's half behind the bar and now—" Another brief glance. "He's sat down and his back is hiding everything."

"The hell is he doing with a _girl_?" Dean asked, apparently stuck on that detail. "What's she look like?"

"What did I just say?" Charlie retorted. When Dean glared, she added: "Don't look at me like that, dude, it's not my fault your brother's huge!"

At that Castiel, who'd been trying to better map out the contours of that new presence—it felt huge, but also unpracticed, an immense flame unwilling to, maybe unable to hide its presence, nothing controlled—blinked. "Your brother?" he asked.

Dean glared harder at Charlie, who this time looked chastened. It was obvious they'd agreed not to let Castiel know about that fact.

"Point is," Dean said, openly dodging the question. "What do we do now?"

"Well, we can't really walk up to him in the middle of the bar, can we?" Charlie replied. "Bet that wouldn't go over so well."

"So what? We just sit here like a bunch of dumbasses?"

Castiel pressed his lips together in thought. Dean's brother's arrival coincided too closely with the sudden pinging of his senses for him not to come to a conclusion he felt reluctant to draw. He needed more data. He needed to make sure. He took a decision.

"I'll get us a refill," he said, taking hold of his and Charlie's mugs.

"The fuck are you doing?" Dean snapped, clasping his arm as he reached for the third glass.

"Getting us refills," Castiel repeated calmly. "By walking to the bar I'll be able to take a closer look at them, maybe even catch a string of conversation. They don't know me," he went on when Dean opened his mouth, obviously to protest. "And I have the means to make sure they won't notice me."

Dean glared at him some more, jaw clenched shut. Castiel looked back evenly.

Finally Dean relented and let him go. Losing no time Castiel snatched the last mug and stood up.

He made sure to take the natural route to the bar, which wasn't the one bringing him closest to the pair that held his interest, unfortunately. The bartender was busy with other clients, and simply rose a hand when Castiel clunked his load on the counter, signaling she would be with him as soon as possible but also asking him to wait. Castiel did just that, leaning against the wooden surface, nonchalantly surveying the room.

He started to his left, roved over the bottles stacked on the shelves, and when he reached the couple sitting at the small table tucked in the corner, out of sight from the entrance, his eyes slid right over them, only briefly slowing on Dean's brother, as anyone's thoughtlessly would upon catching sight of such a large human. Then it was over, and he finished his glance right on time for the bartender to step in front of him and take his order.

It had been enough, though: even if it'd been fleeting he'd seen the woman's face and would now recognize her anywhere. She'd been talking to her companion, earnest and almost kind, her hand resting on his forearm—and that Dean's brother had let her spoke of trust, or at least familiarity. Castiel wasn't close enough to hear what she was saying, but close enough for his suspicion to be confirmed: Dean's brother was the one whose presence he'd felt, was still feeling.

It definitely complicated things.

The bartender returned with the drinks, depriving Castiel of any excuse to linger. He paid, thanked the Temolak and walked back to the table where Dean and Charlie were impatiently waiting.

"So?" Dean asked less than a second after he'd sat down.

"There is indeed a girl."

The glare returned with force. " _And_? Who's she?"

Castiel didn't bother pointing out there were little chance of him knowing. "Human, white-skinned, dark shoulder-length hair, dark eyes," he described. "Petite, with relatively square features—should I go on?"

Dean and Charlie exchanged a glance. The features didn't seem to be ringing any bells.

"I couldn't hear what they were talking about," Castiel added cautiously, "but they seem to know each other quite well."

Dean's frown deepened. "Since when does Sam even talk to girls?" he mumbled to himself, looking down at his beer like it held all the answers.

"So what should we do?" Charlie asked after several seconds of silence.

When Dean didn't answer, Castiel ventured: "It looks like they're going to stay here for a while. I suggest we drink those." He nodded at their drinks. "Neither too slowly, nor too fast. And once we're finished we should leave—" At that Dean's head snapped up, but he settled when Castiel went on: "—and wait outside, out of sight, for them to do the same."

"Then we tail him," Dean concluded with a slight nod.

Charlie shrugged, showing she had no objection. "It would allow us to confront him without drawing too much attention."

"Okay, then," Dean said with a bracing inhalation. He took hold of his mug and raised it with a wry smile. "Cheers."

  


*

  


"Okay, _that_ was weird," Dean declared, shrugging off the arm Castiel had thrown over his shoulder to ostensibly guide him out of the bar as soon as they'd stepped through the door. The pretense of companionship and light inebriation no longer being needed, the Jedi let him go—albeit a bit reluctantly, he found. Having Dean so close to him had been slightly overwhelming, yet pleasant. It left him feeling off-kilter, and confused as to why.

"Warn a guy next time," Dean added in a mutter, straightening his clothes. The light streaming through the bar's fogged-up windows showed the flush high on his cheeks, from their drinks or the sudden cold Castiel didn't know.

"My apologies," he replied, wrapping himself in his cloak to ward off the chilly wind. "I was simply endeavoring to have us blend in."

Dean rolled his eyes. "And now you're back to being worse than a protocol droid."

"Hey," Charlie protested. "Racism."

"Droids are not a _race_ ," Dean retorted as his eyes took in the street, quickly zeroing in on the best place for them to wait: a narrow alley diving between two houses on the other side of the street, about two dozen feet away. He tilted his head towards it before taking off.

"They're still people!" Charlie chastised, hurrying after him.

Castiel checked that no one was watching before he followed them. Given the hour, the town was almost deserted. What little daylight had managed to filter through the thick clouds had faded away hours ago, leaving the sky pitch black and heavy. The temperature had dropped and, now that the hustle and bustle of the day wasn't here to cover it up, the ghostly howl of the wind against the flat roofs was impossible to ignore. It contributed to the eerie atmosphere of the deserted street, dark but for the few lamps strung here and there at the corner of a building. No one lingered. Castiel only saw a few people, hastily walking away in the direction of home.

"What word do you want me to use, organicism?" Charlie was saying when he reached them. "'Cause what do you do with people like me if _that_ 's your criterion, am I only half a person, what?"

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Dean retorted.

"If you don't mean, then don't _say_ it!"

"I was just a phrase, jeez." Charlie opened her mouth, ready to go on, but he beat her to it: "Look, I'm sorry, okay? And I'm not looking for a fight about droid and cyborg rights. You know I'm all for them, and we kind of have other things to do right now, if you remember well," he added, gesturing at the alley around them.

For a second it looked like Charlie wouldn't let it go. Then she looked around, and deflated. "Okay, yeah," she relented. She sounded even a bit sheepish when she added: "You know I'm touchy about those things."

Dean sighed and wrapped his hand behind her head to drag her against his chest. "I know. And I also know what alcohol does to you, so I definitely should've cut you off after first beer."

"I'm a grown cyborg and I don't need no puny full-fleshed human to tell me what to do," she retorted, muffled by Dean's cloak. She didn't push him away and let him drop a kiss on the top of her head before they parted, so Castiel guessed they'd reconciled.

It was a bit of a relief: lurking in the shadows for the undetermined amount of time it would take for their target to leave the bar with those two endlessly bickering would've been far from enjoyable.

Even without it their situation wasn't optimal. The dust was hard packed in the middle of the street but still loose at its edges, rising up in whirlwinds at each burst of wind and stinging their eyes, making them cough. The temperature was still dropping. The warmth from the bar and their drinks had already dissipated, which wasn't helped by them remaining stationary for the sake of discretion. Castiel worried about Charlie, unsure whether her bionic parts made her more vulnerable to the cold or on the contrary kept her warm thanks to the electricity coursing through them. Given the short scene he'd just witnessed, he suspected asking might not be a good idea.

They were lucky, though. They didn't have to wait long before someone emerged from the bar—small and slight, her face glowing in the light of the lantern hanging over the door before she threw her hood up.

"That her?" Dean whispered in Castiel's ear. His damp breath brushed against Castiel's jaw and neck, suddenly making him aware of how close the pilot stood, of the warmth he could feel hovering right against him.

"Yes," he replied, trying to focus on the matter at hand. He wasn't used to having people that close. It was… annoyingly distracting.

He felt Dean's hesitation, though. Obviously he was tempted to try and follow the woman to find out more about who she was. But she'd come out alone, and right now Dean's priority was his brother.

She took off in the direction opposite to theirs. They let her go.

Five minutes passed, ten. Castiel could feel Dean's impatience growing and, without looking down, put an appeasing hand on his forearm. Dean huffed and shuffled closer.

The door to the bar opened again, a welcome distraction—until Dean tensed, having recognized the large silhouette who stopped a few feet into the street to look up at the sky.

"What now, do we tail him?" Charlie whispered.

Castiel glanced at Dean, waiting for an answer, but the man remained silent, jaw clenched shut, eyes riveted on his brother. Sam let out a breath and rubbed his hands together to warm them before he started walking—in the opposite direction as the one his companion had taken, towards them.

"Dean?" Charlie prompted again as he neared.

The next second Dean moved, darting forward without warning and grabbing his brother before the man had the time to react. They scrabbled for a while but Dean, having the element of surprise, managed to slap a hand over his brother's mouth to muffle his shout and drag him into the alley to slam him against the wall.

That was when Sam got the first good look at his face. His eyes widened in recognition and his struggles abated.

"Dean?" he gasped when the pilot deemed it safe to take away his hand. He didn't release the pressure he had on his chest though, keeping him pinned against the wall. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?" Dean rejoined, incensed. "No, seriously, Sam. The _fuck_?"

Sam briefly faltered. "I— That's none of your business."

"The hell it's not my business!"

"I'm an adult, in case you haven't noticed," Sam retorted, scowling. "I don't answer to you anymore."

He tried to move but Dean held him where he was, putting more pressure on his ribcage. "Right," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. The pretense dropped at once when he added: "Who's the chick?"

"What chick?"

"Don't play dumb with me!" Dean snapped, shoving his arm forward and making Sam gasp.

"Dean," Castiel intervened, faintly warning. There was no need for violence. Dean threw him a glance and—paused. His head spun back to his brother as realization dawned over his face.

He took a step back, letting go so abruptly that Sam stumbled.

"She's teaching you," Dean said while his brother coughed and winced, rubbing as his sternum. "Isn't she?"

Sam froze—for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. "I don't—"

"Don't lie to me!" Dean hissed, seeing right through the pretense, his voice bitter but also resigned and, underneath it all, _hurt_. "That's it, really?" He looked around, as if looking for a sign that he was wrong. "I can't— What did she tell you? What lies did she feed you to make you think that _this_ was a good idea?" He flailed, gesturing at the town—and beyond it at the whole planet, the whole sector.

"She didn't _lie_ to me," Sam protested. "I'm the one who came to her."

"Why the fuck would you do that?" Dean asked, sounding helpless.

"Because I _want to learn_ , Dean," Sam retorted.

"Since when?" Dean exclaimed. "What happened to your whole plan, with the studies and the girl and the muja pie life, what?"

Sam glared. "You _know_ what happened to it," he gritted between his teeth.

"Damn it, Sam, what happened wasn't your fault!"

"You sure about that?" Sam asked, a terrible smile curling the corner of his mouth. "Because first it was mom, and then Jess—"

Dean cut him off, grabbing him by the shoulders to make sure he was looking at him. "Listen to me! It _wasn't your fault._ It wasn't. None of it."

For a second, it looked like Sam was about to cry. Then he shook himself, shook Dean off, cleared his throat.

"Maybe," he said, sounding anything but convinced. "But maybe— No, I definitely could've done something to prevent it, if I'd known how to use this." His hands moved, gesturing at—himself, or something inside of himself.

"Poking at it now isn't gonna change anything," Dean said quietly.

"What if it could?" Sam countered. "Ruby said—" He clamped his mouth shut, looking furious for a second. Obviously he hadn't meant to let the name slip.

Dean jumped on the opening. "Oh, Ruby, is it? Nice to know you're on first name basis already."

Sam let out a harsh breath. "Point is, I could help people, I could prevent other people from getting hurt—"

"'Cause she told you so, that's it? And you trust the first bitch you come across to teach you? Come on Sam!" Dean said, voice rising. "How stupid can you be?"

"She's not teaching me anything," Sam snapped, throwing his hands in the air. "She's helping me finding the one who will! Dean," he added, trying to calm himself down, to catch his brother's eye, expression earnest and beseeching. "It can be something good. _Trust_ me, I _know_ it can. I just—" But Dean was shaking his head, taking a step back.

"No," he said. "Not like this. Not when it all started by you having to flee, and lie, and end up in this place… That way can only lead to bad things."

"You don't know that," Sam retorted. "That's the thing, you don't. You don't know anything, you never did! And you never knew what it was like, for me, to have this—" He knocked against his chest. "—inside of me, and being told to ignore it and hide it, my whole _life_ —" He took another calming breath. "My whole life, you and dad made all the decisions about this, and you had no right, and I am _done_ —"

"We did it to protect you," Dean gritted between his teeth.

"And I'm done with it!" Sam exclaimed. "I'm sick of it, I'm not a kid anymore, and _you're_ not dad!"

It was a blow that carried, if the expression that painted itself over Dean's face was anything to go by. Even Sam seemed uncertain of himself, pressing his lips together instead of pursuing the attack.

Dean didn't reply.

"Um, guys," Charlie said, jumping on the lull to intervene. "Not that I want to interrupt that undoubtedly cleansing heart-to-heart, but you're getting kinda loud, and we kinda want to avoid drawing unwanted attention…?"

Castiel thought rapidly. Given the look on Sam's face, he was still convinced that he'd made the right decision by coming here. Changing his mind, if that was even feasible, if it was even possible to make him _listen_ , would take a while. Time they didn't have.

They couldn't stay here in the open to talk. And they couldn't let Sam go: they had no guarantee that he wouldn't go right to Ruby, who once informed of their presence wouldn't want to stick around and undoubtedly had ways to flee the planet at the first sign of trouble.

"Charlie is right," Castiel concurred. And, when Sam reflexively glanced at him, he caught and held his gaze. "You should come with us to the ship," he told him, intent in his voice and in the discreet flick of fingers. "So you can talk, without fear of being interrupted."

It was a risk he was taking. Sam was powerful; it was highly possible that he'd automatically block Castiel's influence, or sense what was going on and knew not to trust him.

But he was also unpracticed, and Castiel counted among the knights which the Council was considering for the rank of Master.

Sam briefly furrowed his brow, as if confused, as if almost guessing—before he blinked and looked back at Dean. "Yeah," he said. "We should go back to the Impala. So we can talk."

Dean stared at him for a second, uncomprehending. He glanced at Charlie, then at Castiel, and paused. His mouth curled downwards.

"Okay," he said slowly, his eyes not leaving Cas. "Let's go."

The way back to the hangar where the ship had been stowed for the night wasn't long, owing to the limited size of the settlement. On the way there Charlie and Sam talked a bit, Sam having noticed the cyborg's change of hair color and commenting on it while she tried to swat his hand away. Dean for his part was silent, expression grim and almost angry. Castiel suspected he knew why.

It was confirmed when they reached the Impala. Sam and Charlie climbed the ramp first and headed for the common room. Castiel made to follow them, but Dean held him back by the shoulder, waiting until the other two had disappeared to turn him around and grab him by the collar.

"I know what you did," Dean hissed between teeth, eyes full of anger and distrust.

Castiel ignored the pang he felt at seeing such an expression directed at him. "Getting him to come with us quietly was the best solution," he said quietly. "And he wouldn't have otherwise."

Dean couldn't deny it, but he was loath to admit it, Castiel saw it in his eyes. He tightened his grip on Castiel's cloak to the point where it started to get uncomfortable.

"You will never use any your fucking mind tricks on my brother again," Dean stated, voice low and heavy with threat. "Is that clear?"

Castiel pressed his lips together. Giving his word would mean giving up an option that could still be useful. But at the same time he himself hadn't enjoyed it, would've preferred to avoid it, and he enjoyed the reaction it had elicited in Dean—the wariness, the anger, all directed at him, and rightfully so—even less.

"Very well. I won't," he said.

Dean held him there a bit longer, as if to make sure, then released him. As Castiel ran a hand around his collar to loosen it, Dean went and pressed the button to draw up and lock the ship's ramp. After several seconds of hesitation, he knocked against the frame twice before he turned away to join Sam and Charlie in the common room. Castiel followed.

"So," Dean asked Sam once they were all settled with a drink. "What did you want to talk about?"

"You tell me," Sam replied sullenly. "You're the one who wanted me to come here."

" _I_ didn't say anything," Dean protested.

Castiel threw him a look. They had better things to do than linger on such details: soon Sam would realize what had happened. He would wonder why he'd agreed to follow them so readily, and realize he hadn't done so willingly. They wouldn't be able to hold him back, then. And he would be in no mood to listen.

Sam's gaze had caught on him—because he was already catching on, or because he'd realized for the first time that he didn't know him. He opened his mouth, probably to ask, and—

The ship shuddered. And started moving.

Only his years of training prevented Castiel from toppling over at the unexpected jerk. Charlie wasn't so lucky—disadvantaged by her unbalanced body mass—, while Sam barely caught himself, spilling half his beer.

"What the—" he let out. He stared at the window, through which the hangar was sliding past, quicker and quicker as the ship gained speed. A second later he was out of his seat, striding towards the cockpit. Charlie scrambled to follow, as did Castiel.

Benny was in the pilot seat, setting the commands for take-off.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam asked.

"What's it look like?" Benny replied lightly. He threw Sam a mocking glance and, noticing his glare, shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me like that. I'm just following orders."

Sam blinked, then whirled back around towards his brother, who was still sitting in his chair, staring right ahead as he took a pull of his beer.

"What the hell, Dean? You said we would talk. Nothing else!"

This time Dean didn't bother to correct him. "And we'll talk," he said, finally turning his head to meet his brother's furious glare. Through the window behind him, Castiel saw that the ship had just cleared the hangar's entrance. "But not here. I don't know what it is, that planet's poisoned air or some mojo that bitch threw on you, but something's not right. You're not in your right mind, and you won't be until—"

"I am perfectly aware of what I am doing," Sam said, cold and clearly enunciated.

"Then how come you're doing _this_?" Dean challenged.

"So what, because I'm do something _you_ don't like, then I _must_ be mind-addled, that's it?" Sam ran a hand through his hair, looking incredulous. "Wow, that's a new low, even for you." He turned back to Benny and said, rather quietly given the situation: "Turn the ship around."

"Sorry, kid," the Iktotchi replied without sparing him a glance. "No can do."

Sam pressed his lips together and breathed out. "You'll turn the ship around," he said slowly. " _Now_."

His voice was low, loaded, full of intent. Benny obediently repeated: "I'll turn the ship around now," and reached for the dial to reverse their propulsion just as ship started soaring through the sky. Charlie too stumbled forward to help: the command had been meant for Benny, but it had also been exceedingly powerful and uncontrolled enough that even Castiel had felt a twinge.

"The hell we will," Dean unexpectedly snarled. He'd stood up from his seat but seemed otherwise unaffected. "Benny, Charlie, keep course," he added, and the familiar act of command from their captain was enough to snap them both out of Sam's clumsy attempt to subjugate them. They rapidly corrected their last actions.

"You can't take me against my will!" Sam protested.

"Oh, I can't?" Dean bit back. " _Watch_ me."

They glared at each other for several long minutes, until Sam let out a wordless cry, and stormed off. Castiel watched him go, worrying for a second that he'd try and open the ram to throw himself off the ship.

The sound of a hand slamming against a wall rang out, followed by an angry beeping from the Impala. Then silence.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and let out a slow, trembling breath. He rubbed hand down his face, took another long pull from his beer. Then he straightened, and walked to his crew.

"You okay?" he asked them.

"Define okay," Charlie mumbled without looking at him, quite obviously upset but unwilling to talk about it—or maybe unwilling to talk about it with Dean.

Benny ignored the question altogether. "He's locked his door and changed the code," he said, nodding at the small screen displaying a plan of the Impala.

Dean pressed his lips together but didn't insist. "Enter hyperspace as soon as you can," he simply instructed before he turned away to disappear down the corridor—presumably to try and reason with his brother.

Castiel doubted that he'd have much success.

  



End file.
